Drawing Cards in the Middle Ages to Rise in Ranks-Chapter 464 - 244: The Defense of Eira Port

Eira Port.

The foggy docks.

The Saracen fleet, flying the Holy Fire Banner, rapidly sails toward the shore, the oars stretching out from both sides of the ships swiftly flailing under the captains’ urgings.

Accompanied by the sound of boulders tearing through the air.

From the Siegfried High Tower, huge stones are thrown like Mjolnir from pagan myths, crashing into a damaged three-decked galley; this massive ship, capable of carrying hundreds, seems to have had its dragon bone struck, breaking its ribs piece by piece.

The entire ship lets out a strained groan, and then suddenly both ends lift, showing signs of sinking.

The cannon fire resonates continuously.

From time to time, large ships are struck, wood splinters flying.

If the Siegfried High Tower were built not beside the city walls but at the location of the port’s lighthouse, with its terrifying firepower, at least half of the fleet would be doomed to the sea before reaching the shore.

The cannon shots from the tower force the fleet to hasten towards the shore, with some fierce Saracen sailors not planning to sail back anymore, instead charging straight onto the beach.

The enemy raises their shields and begins forming ranks on the beach.

Guarding the road, Mueller peers through the gaps in his helmet, carefully observing the details of this unknown enemy force.

Their composition is quite mixed; some are merely wrapped in Arabian-style turbans, with leather armor under loose robes; others wear pitch-black chain armor or scale armor, clearly officers among the enemy ranks.

Indeed, the army is comprised of Berbers from Morocco, Turks from Asia Minor, and a considerable number of mercenaries from Kuman and Turkmen, some are professional sailors, while a significant portion are mercenaries unskilled in naval warfare.

They use swords to urge a group of rowers from the ship’s bottom to the front line.

The rowers are generally slaves, including a notable portion of European pilgrims and Russian slaves trafficked by the Kuman.

At present, holding crude weapons, they are forced to charge ahead.

"These damned beasts!"

Andreas curses, "Archers, shoot only when the enemy is within a hundred meters!"

Orders are passed down, and archers ambushed atop port buildings or within structures place arrows where they can grab them instantly; many of these archers are Saracens who converted to ’True Faith’ and face their so-called compatriots without a moment of hesitation.

These enemies are robbers aiming to seize their property, villains desiring to destroy their hard-earned happy lives!

The first batch of rowers starts their charge.

They lift crude shields, some even use simple boards from the ships without handles, needing both hands to hold them in front.

"Release!"

The soldiers defending the city draw bows and nock arrows.

The deadly rain of arrows quickly suppresses the rowers’ charge, but by now, the enemy has gathered on the beach, with a dense mass of Saracen soldiers numbering perhaps as many as two thousand.

The number of rower slaves used as cannon fodder exceeds this number.

Urged by their masters, the slaves pause only briefly before charging forward again into the arrow rain, with some falling to arrows mid-charge.

Polished boulders crash at the entrance, killing several Saracen soldiers, and as they roll down the hill, they greatly hinder the soldiers trailing the slaves’ attack.

Mueller shouts, "Guards, bring me a shield and ten javelins—back in my youth, I was quite adept at throwing javelins."

He accepts a javelin, leans back, and powerfully throws it.

Thud—

The javelin pierces through an enemy’s shield, directly pinning a slave warrior behind it to the ground.

Yet, we are vastly outnumbered.

The battle gradually inches toward close-quarters combat.

Andreas, wearing brand new plate armor marked with patterns, raises a long spear adorned with the Double-headed Eagle Banner, shouting, "Form ranks, prepare to meet the enemy."

"Hoo-hah!"

The soldiers positioned at the forefront lift their shields shoulder to shoulder; these well-trained town guards, holding shields with their left hands and long spears in their right, use a phalanx combat method of heavy infantry from classical times.

The soldiers barely considered professional are the most elite forces of Eira Port, placed on the front line of battle.

Andreas was among them.

He took a javelin from Mueller, channeling all his strength, and when the enemy was about to reach the defense line, he fiercely threw it out. This javelin, with tremendous power, sliced through the air and accurately hit the head of a "Supervision Team" member, piercing through his eye socket and pinning his head to the ground.

An arrow hit Andreas’ helmet but was flicked away with a clang.

This was like the starting signal—the metallic clash, the muffled thud of arrows hitting shields—had begun. The enemy instantly recognized Andreas, this gorgeously dressed Knight, as the Commander of the battle, and many skilled Kuman and Turkic soldiers started aiming arrows at Andreas.

A group of black-armored Warriors, fully equipped, immediately set their sights on Andreas.

Mueller looked at the overwhelming number of enemy forces and instinctively swallowed.

"Young man, can you hold on?"

Andreas’ bloodshot eyes were filled with lines, and the thick smell of blood spreading across the battlefield made his heart, which had been silent, pound vigorously once again.

"Of course, it’s not that simple for them to kill me."

He raised his Long Spear high, grabbed the banner from the Attendant behind him with the other hand and stood at the most conspicuous place.

"Heavenly Father protect us, Saint Gabriel protect us, the Holy Tree protect us, in this battle we shall be invincible!"

Andreas roared.

Ahead.

The dark waves crashed with a thunderous roar against the defense line set up in advance at Eira Port.

Old Hassan gasped, knocking down a grim-faced rower in front of him, and immediately after, a black-armored Warrior sprang up from behind the fallen enemy. Just as he swung his blade, intending to decapitate Old Hassan, his tribesman beside him thrust a Spear into the Warrior’s chest, forcing him back several steps.

Old Hassan could not afford to catch his breath and immediately aimed at the head of the black-armored Warrior. Using a flail, meant for threshing wheat, he hammered his head, causing him to fall to the ground with a dizzying spin, uncertain if he was alive or dead.

Subsequently, more enemies surged forward.

Old Hassan felt his physical strength rapidly declining, locked in life-and-death struggles at every moment. If it had been in his youth, he might have held out for another quarter of an hour, but now he felt his lungs wheezing like the bellows used by a blacksmith.

The Town Guard mechanically thrust their Long Spears, and the solid shield wall seemed like rocks on the shore, letting the enemy’s dark waves crash upon them, shattering.

"Reserves!"

Andreas shouted the order.

The command was relayed down through the ranks.

Before Old Hassan could react, he felt someone pull him from behind, staggering backward several steps.

Soon after, the recruited Militia began to replace the previous defenders, coming to the defense line.

Many of them had military experience, but they were far from elite. If they were to be sent up, it would inevitably result in heavy casualties, but at the moment, it was not the time to worry about these matters.

The enemy’s assault was too fierce.

They seemed not to consider retreat at all.

As if in the ocean behind them, there lurked a monster ten times more terrifying than the enemy before them, making them rather shed their blood on this beach than retreat a step.

...

The battle lasted about an hour.

Blood dyed the entire beach red.

Blood flowed along the drainage channels.

On the sea, amidst the thin mist.

A voice filled with excitement shouted.

A black giant ship cut through the waves, crashing into the ships docked at the shore.

Vaguely visible was an enormous unicorn whale, colliding alongside the black ship.

A man wearing a captain’s hat, with a long black leather coat fluttering in the wind.

He laughed loudly, raising his sword: "Young men, crush these little rats trying to escape!"

Accompanied by a chorus of cheers.